


I don't know, he wouldn't say.

by Alethiometric



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, suicide warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethiometric/pseuds/Alethiometric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been ten minutes since Jim shot himself and Sebastian is already lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't know, he wouldn't say.

He had been able to wait until the end of the job, at least—as hard as it had been, waiting until the doctor collapsed to the ground, knees gone out, completely deflated. Only when he was sure that the detective was dead did he pack the gun away. To his credit, Sebastian’s hands didn’t shake. Quite the opposite, in fact; they were almost rigidly still, too precise, too controlled. Refusing to believe it, so far.

He wouldn’t let himself think about what Jim had done. Couldn’t contemplate it, even for a second, because to think on it would be to entertain the notion of accepting it, and he would not—could not—allow himself to believe that his boss could be dead. What an awfully final phrase, as final as a bullet to the brain.  
Hoisting the bag behind him as he went, Sebastian jogged evenly up the rear hospital staircase, its upper wells oddly empty of other people considering the sudden death on the pavement below. He reached the door to the roof with a faint grunt, bracing the bag against the rough wall to unlock the knob. It clicked, too loudly, and the noise was only added to by the dull, metallic clank his bag made as he dropped it on the other side of the threshold.

Jim lay in the middle of the rooftop, gun in his hand, face still frozen into an expression bordering on mania. A few small pieces of brain matter floated languidly in the dark pool of blood behind his head. Even though Sebastian had seen the act itself through his scope, the aftermath was a shock, because even in all of the years they had spent evading death the sniper hadn’t doubted for a moment that it would never end in a bullet, at least not for Jim. His own death had always seemed inevitable, hair-raisingly close several times over, but Jim was ageless and invulnerable as long as he was protected.

So was it his fault? Sebastian wondered, kneeling next to the body. Was it his fault that this had happened, was his boss dead because of his own actions, or lack thereof? He should have been there, should have been the one holding the gun to Sherlock Holmes’ head until the bastard jumped, because this was never the ending he had envisioned. Who would end his life now?

Sebastian touched the blood almost unconsciously, just with the tips of his fingers, a confirmation of a confirmation. It was still warm, and left a faint sticky feeling to his fingertips. Drawing his hand back, he bit his lip and exhaled deeply, rocking back to sit next to the red pool. He couldn’t look at Jim’s face, dropping his head to his hands instead and grasping at his hair as though it was the only thing he could hold on to. He wouldn’t cry; he couldn’t, not anymore, but this silence was the closest thing he could manage while sitting next to someone whose eyes stared, unblinkingly, into the sun that broke through the clouds.

**Author's Note:**

> Snapshot in between larger projects.
> 
> Title is snagged from Yesterday by the Beatles.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
